


Nirwër

by Arnediad



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Author bathing in nuance, Green-eyed Noldor, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, The Noldor have problems, To a degree obnoxious, but mostly just aged couple vibes, electral relationships, implied polyamory, mildleh fluffeh, necking, so many problems, somehow it became sad at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28565253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arnediad/pseuds/Arnediad
Summary: A night in Barad Eithel, during Fingon's rule.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Nirwër

**Author's Note:**

> This piece doesn't have a particular plot. So. Warning there. It's just old elves being old.

Fingon has a scar on his left hand from Alqualondë.

More specifically, it is on the edge of his index finger, or perhaps it begins in the middle of it. It traces downwards in a score of shining flesh; over his palm and straight to his wrist. It isn’t wide, nor is it long, but it is of the ilk that when the fire catches it just right it can be seen from across the room. If Fingon should suddenly become unrecognizable-stars forbid-due to battle, accident, or illness, Maedhros would know him by that specific scar. He knows the heft of it, the length of it, and the manner in which it knifes downwards in a slightly curved path to grow thin and peter out near where the radial pulse can be detected. A thousand times, likely more, he has traced it...memorized the shallow feel of it beneath his fingertips. It is something from Before that is familiar as much as Findekáno is familiar, and so he clings to it.

Maedhros has scars as well.

Numerous they are, and grotesque he has thought them. Most of them are from Angband, and he dislikes the fact that these are not scars of honor but of torment. Or, perhaps, they are scars of restitution...for his failure to save his _attar_ , for his failure to rule his people. In the case of his failures, these scars are justified, and remind him continuously of the price he has had to pay for the sake of swearing Oaths and clinging to cold gemstones. Were it not for the Oath, he is steadfast in his certainty that he would give it all up. Wholeness, after all, is a welcome alternative to a constant sense of brokenness. It would also mean his brothers would be free, it would mean his _attar_ might be alive...but it would also mean that none of it had occurred...but it has...and he cannot ignore it with wishful thinking.

Finno’s quarters are elaborate.

For his taste, in any case. Then again, everything in Barad Eithel feels grand opposed to Himring. In times long past, he preferred the openness of Lóminórë to the grand fortress in Ered Wethrin. The rolling, mountainous and echoing hills of Fingon’s prior home had been a welcome balm to him. He has fond memories of visiting Amon Darthir to look down on Nen Lalaith in its chuckling splendor. Very little was he given the opportunity to venture there, but when he did, he was happier for it. Barad Eithal has no shortage of water, but the cold and imposing white-wash of stone walls is stifling in nature. It reminds him too much of his own fortress for him to be truly comfortable. Fingon has stated that he dislikes it as well, but understands that it is necessary for him to remain there in the face of his rule. Here, too, he cannot visit often...but steals the time when he can manage to pocket it.

The evening has been spent catering to diplomats.

Maedhros does not mind this as much as Fingon does. As chieftain of his household, he has a duty to spread news of _Himring’s_ news, and such gatherings give him opportunity to practice politics without inserting himself into court too heavily. There is no great love for the Sons of Fëanor in Hithlum, and whatever trade he can peddle is a necessary-if not entirely desperate-endeavor. Fingon has been far more assertive than his sire over the necessity of union, but the sins of the past still weigh heavily on their people, and they are not so willing to forgive.

So too are his brothers bitter over his relinquishment of the crown...even if the individual he handed it off to has been buried and mourned. Betimes, their tentative congeniality feels just that; tentative...if not downright grudging. Long nights he has spent arguing with Curufin over the necessity of their exile and the _detriment_ of a possible rebellion. Round and round it goes...until he is often exhausted and beleaguered by the near-constant discord. Too much like their father Curufin is...in many ways, both in his temperament and his ability to sway others to his cause. This, too, is another reason he cannot leave Himring ever-long; it is far too likely he will return to find himself usurped.

Here, however, there is only Fingon.

In this room, in any case; outside is the bustle of a fortress settling for the night, but he has no care for its comings and goings...only for the individual currently unbuckling his scabbard in order to place his sword next to the hearth. This he does before reaching upwards to remove the circlet on his head in a world-weary sort of manner, and Maedhros feels a rush of fondness and sympathy jolt through him. The latter he shoves down, for he knows Finno would not appreciate it. Instead, he merely observes as the King of The Noldor makes himself ready for the closing of the day. The room itself is circular in nature; with the fire next to the great double doors leading out into the hall and two chairs before it. Behind this is the bed and a shadowed armoir; the latter the blue of the house of Fingolfin, richly brocaded with gold. Indeed, much of the room is a royal blue with white accents, but the details are unimportant to him...save for maybe the chairs, where he can put his feet up.

Brocade, in his opinion, is wasted on anything but a festival tunic.

Watching as Finno glances at him from under half-mast lids, he reflects amusedly that perhaps even that is a waste. In a time where excess is a thing of...well, _excess_ , it possesses no true meaning beyond it. Occasionally, Hithlum and other, somewhat densely populated areas hold festivals. But they are but a momentary soothe to the open sore that is their state of living. When he and Findekáno pledged their troth...so many years ago, in the halls of Himring where he lay somewhere between life and death, there was no festival. It was common to celebrate marriage, even informal marriage-as theirs had been-even then, but they had not done so. It was Forbidden, of course, but he also had not thought to see the day where they would remain together forever.

Even now, he does not believe that _forever_ is so much a guaranteed thing as a whimsical thing. His love for Fingon is simple...without the flair or celebration or great fanfare...and thus he cherishes it more. For any day this could be taken from them; this distant, yet deeply affectionate bond that has withstood the tests of terror, trial, and time. His Oath had been a knee-jerk rage against impermanence; he held no such fears when it came to his love for Fingon. That would remain a certainty, and when he died...and he would die, he was certain, it would die with him. Troths...like Oaths, should not last-in his opinion-beyond certain extremes. It is somewhat comforting to know there is an end to all things.

He loves Fingon for his patience.

This he possesses in great abundance. He would need to, to remain friends with Maedhros throughout their childhood and into their young adulthood. The eldest son of Fëanor has too many memories of getting them into terrible trouble because he wanted to raid the cellars for honey cakes or venture off to the Trees when it was not time for a pilgrimage. Fingon, of course, had his share of mischiefs as well, but they were more temperate and measured than his brash and often compulsive whims. Youth, he had learned, was a time to do that...and once they were of age they were both pulled into the houses of their respective sires and taught that they could no longer do silly things for the sake of doing silly things. As the eldest sons, they had duties to fulfill; duties that would not wait for them to get better heads on their shoulders.

“I swear it grows heavier each time I wear it.”

Fingon’s voice is laced with exhaustion, and Maedhros observes as the son of Fingolfin turns the circlet in his hands before hefting it with a single palm and putting it atop the mantle.

“You are a good King” Maedhros points out from in front of the doors, moving forward and turning around so he can step in front of the fire. Holding his hands out in order to feel the warmth at his fingertips, he tilts his head and relents. “Though I am not King, and I would not wish the burden of rule upon anyone. I know what you speak of, I am sorry you have to carry it.”

“Oh, I’m just complaining” Fingon grouses, and Maedhros smiles to himself. The expression only grows when Finno steps behind him in order to wrap his arms around his waist and bury his nose in the crook of his neck, in the fall of his hair, sighing as he does so. “What say you, Russandol?” he murmurs. “Were you fruitful in your efforts to charm our trade-peddling diplomats on this fair eve?”

He laughs. Tilting his head back, mirth still on the tip of his tongue, he smiles wider as Fingon immediately burrows further into the fall of his hair.

“Aye” he chuckled. “I would say I was about as successful as you were.”

The groan that follows reverberates against the hollow beneath his ear.

“Then surely you have failed” Finno moans. “For I fear I made a fool of myself.” When Maedhros makes a skeptical-and slightly beleaguered-noise, his head shakes from side to side. “I don’t know why I bother, ‘tis not as if they haven’t already schemed their way into their seats by way of status and gold.”

Turning in the circle of the younger elf’s arms, nudging gently until Fingon lifts his head, he surveys the desolate visage before him solemnly before speaking.

“But that is why you must bother,” he says gravely. “Because if you do not, no one will.” The smile he receives in response is tinged with the knowledge of how ironic the statement is. “I wish it were otherwise” he continues bitterly. “But I would not wish my rule upon anyone.”

Grey eyes soften in response.

“Now who is being too harsh on himself?” Fingon chides him. When Maedhros does not respond immediately, he pulls him in for a kiss, though a chaste one. “Many pleasures I have known” is the murmured statement. “But the pleasure of knowing you, I hold in great regard...among few.”

“Perhaps you are deprived” Maedhros muses distractedly, letting a hand lift to catch the cuff of an ornate sleeve. “Sere few pleasures we both have known.”

Fingon stills and is silent long enough that it gives him pause. Standing before him, the King of the Noldor says nothing, but eyes him in a way that tells him enough, yet not enough.

Jealousy, of course, is his first reaction.

It comes quickly, in a veridian wave that threatens to wash him in grief and not a little bit of rage. Because surely in giving himself to another, or many others, he reasons, Fingon will not have enough love left to give to him.

“Enough pleasure I have known” Fingon replies quietly, and his eyes are calm but affixed to him with a knowing kind of observation. “Enough to know it is not the sort of thing one discusses during times like this.”

“How-“ Maedhros begins, distraught; but his companion makes a shushing noise, steps closer to wrap an arm around his waist and push his hair from his eyes.

“We both know if I tell you you won’t be able to focus on anything else.” Those steely eyes harden a minute. “Those were the terms, _lá_? We are wed, but we are not indebted to one another in body.”

Maedhros thinks he ought to be closer.

They both know that it is impossible.

“I am not near enough” he says, regardless, despair heavy in his tone.

Even as Fingon flicks his tongue to cluck at him in quiet disapproval, the fire gives a final valiant heave of effort, having burned late into the night, only to die and throw forth a spray of glowing embers as it does so.

“‘Tis not your nearness I desire” Finno remarks, staring at what remains of the flames. After a moment, he appears to reconsider the statement. “Or, perhaps it is, but we both know that wishing for such things is for naught.” A shrewd glance in his direction. “And _you_ cannot claim to be chaste. I have heard of your...endeavors.”

Maedhros flushes and the smile he receives in return is on the edge of tight. They are silent but a moment, and he is innately aware of the rich fabric beneath his fingers as he clutches Fingon tighter. So different...their respectives lives...at least now. In Valinor, they were both princes of a sort. At the very least, there was no shortage of riches for anyone. Now, however, the contrast between their everyday existences is sharp. As a King, Fingon dons the garb given to him but secretly despises it. As a Lord, Maedhros wears the spare leather and cloth provided that his brothers do not need, and is continuously on the edge of threadbare. Finno’s mouth finds his and he forgets this, even if only for a moment, in order to respond. These moments, he has found, are essential. Because he can dredge them up later, when he is tired and alone in the towers of Himring, he can recollect the taste of a long-distant kiss and be-if only for a moment-away.

“‘Tis not the future I imagined” he murmurs into the warmth of parted lips. The huff of air that passes between them with Fingon’s laugh is both infectious and stirring.

“ _Phū, ná_ ” is the vaguely-snorted comment. “ _Atar_ is raging in the Halls, I imagine, betimes.”

“You’re mixed up, my _atar_ did all the raging” Maedhros muses.

“ _Ai_ , Maitimo” is the now slightly-wheedling response. “Can we not discuss our sires when I want you to take me to bed?”

He thinks that things should last longer than they do.

They don’t...however. So when he allows himself to be led to the great, ornate bed in the shadows, it is with the knowledge that he will not always have this. Fingon kisses him and he permits it, because in the end he has never possessed anything save for the Oath...and even that possesses him more than he has hold of it. Maedhros returns the kiss; nips the vermillion of a plush lower lip until Finno opens his mouth fully and they shiver together...in the velvet river that is midnight. When he yanks the richly embroidered vest from his beloved's shoulders and tries to swallow his tongue it is not so much a carnal desperation as it is a knowledge of what Fingon likes and what he doesn't. The smirk against his mouth bumps at once awkwardly and familiarly with teeth before said smirk abandons its post to suck a rose under his jaw even as hands yank them close, as Finno arches purposefully and the world flowers into a carmine spiral. The pearl-colored hue of skin caught by firelight is made apparent...in later hours...in the skim of fingers over heaving epidermis...and he does not ask for more. He cannot, for there is very little he can give in return. And later...when the fire has died entirely and dawn is a pale, dove-grey circle on the horizon...when his hair is stuck to him and Finno alike and he is tracing the glittering, silvered scar in the lamplight, he thinks that he could not really ask for more...for he does not wish for it.

“Regrets I have many” he says hoarsely, into a head of braided hair. “But my greatest may be that I did not wait to swear to things until I was sure of my heart.”

Finno makes a strange noise then...in the shadows, in the heave and fall of the descent of pleasure. It is at once terrible pain and great affection.

“Maitimo'' Fingon says quietly. “There is not one of us that does not have regrets.” A hand, _that_ hand, cups his cheek. “For me to fault you for being loyal to your sire would be monstrous. Of all your brothers, you appear to me to regret it the most, to wish to atone for it the most.”

“A regret an excuse does not make” Maedhros murmured, turning his head to murmur into the aforementioned palm.

“Aye” Káno whispers. “But were I to judge every living soul by his past misdeeds, a bitter _adanedhel_ I would be, with no room for love in my heart.”

Maedhros laughs quietly into a lifeline, his hair falling forward to shroud fingers, wrist and arm even as he reaches up to turn Fingon’s hand, to press his lips to the knuckles.

“It is easy for you to say that” he grouches. “We are wed.”

“It _is_ easy for me to say that” his companion agrees, amusement lacing his tone. “Because I see that you regret, I see that you are a good ruler, in Himring, and I see that you have a good heart.” The smile playing about Fingon’s lips bleeds into a blinding smile. “And, _ná, tye-meláne_ , Nelyafinwë.” The aforementioned individual grouses a bit at the antiquated endearment, and an all-out laugh follows. “I love you, Maitimo, I do. So yes, I may be biased.”

Against his will, Maedhros smiles.

“Perish the thought.”

Fingon laughs...and there is a little bit of Valinor in it, a bit of the Trees, a bit of childhood. When the hand with the scar reaches back to trace the one at the back of his neck...where Gorthaur’s blade had pierced deep…’till it near severed the nerve endings there….he shivers. He is pulled into a kiss too sweet to be anything more than that, and when he pulls away, he knows he will lose this. The stars reflected back from Fingon’s eyes tell him he knows this too, and when his beloved speaks...it is tinged with a great sadness.

_”Perish the thought.”_

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N:** Trying to get all of these out before uni really picks up. Most of these have been sitting in my docs for ages, just haven't had the time to flesh them out and edit them. I've started writing fics in significant event pieces and then filling out the details. Like a pie sorta ಠ_ಠ I think I just wanted a reason to write Russingon. Again. I keep having them talk in bed. I don't know why. One more after this, but it's Angbang. 
> 
> **Translations [Quenya]** :  
>  **Nirwër** - _scars_ from _'nirwë'_ or _'scar'_ [s] and _-r_ -plural suffix deriving into plural ending.  
>  **attar** - _father_  
>  **Lá** - _'no'_  
>  **adanedhel** - _male elf_ / _elf-man_.  
>  **Ná** - _'yes'_ , literally, _'it is so'_
> 
>  **Other Translations:**  
>  **Phū** -primitive elvish, expression of disgust. _'ugh'_.


End file.
